


in the words of tainted hearts

by Dirtyimagination



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, british coffee withdrawal is a real thing, british-asshole clarke, cheating exes, hate-cohabitation, uptight and obsessive compulsive lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:24:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirtyimagination/pseuds/Dirtyimagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa doesn't like Clarke. Clarke doesn't like Lexa. So they should definitely live together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the words of tainted hearts

The first sip is always her favorite—the way light foam coats her lips before espresso touches her tongue. It’s a flavor fluctuation that starts dark and finishes sweet, embellishing something sacred, really. And real talk? Coffee in America is fucking rubbish, so she might as well get it in while she can.

Six months without Café Nero is a long time. Six months in _America_ is a long time. Well, she hopes it’s only six months. Wells said three, and she trusts him about as far as she can throw him, so six it is and she’s sticking to it.

  
That’s the thing about the music business. Unless it’s on a signed piece of paper with dollar signs before a number, it’s virtually shit. Doesn’t matter who it is. They’re wankers. All wankers.

  
Her carry-on rests lightly against the side of her black Vans and her phone’s tucked snugly in the front pocket of her button up shirt. She eyes the Heathrow departures list again, scanning for LAX, just checking to see if her flight’s been delayed. It hasn’t, and that means she has about sixteen minutes to call Octavia back before her plane boards.

  
The banner at the top of her screen had flashed with _Clarke, call me asap_ nearly two hours ago. And while she couldn’t be bothered with it then, if she lands in LA without even so much as trying to return her best friend’s phone call, it would end badly.

  
Plus, you know, the whole living together thing.

She initiates the FaceTime call without video and waits until Octavia’s voice comes through.

  
“Hello, _old chap_ ,” she teases a fake accent, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

  
“O, we talked about this. I’m not an old Welsh man.”

  
“Still funny, though.”

  
“Actually, it hasn’t been funny for the last five years. You may want to reconsider your life choices.”

  
“But I like my choices.”

  
“England begs to differ, love.”

  
“Ah, and here comes the British superiority. We lasted what, three minutes this time?”

  
“Two, actually. And I believe the word you’re looking for is _posh_.”

  
“I love it when you patronize me with bitchy British talk.”

  
Clarke chuckles softly into her phone. “I do what I can.”

  
“When’s your flight land?”

  
“It’s meant to land at half past nine, your time. I think? I’m not positive but I’ll send you a screen shot of the details. You’re picking me up, right?”

  
“Yeeeeeah, so listen,” the fluctuation in her voice does not leave Clarke with a good feeling. “About that. I’m not gonna to be able to pick you up. I’m in Norwalk.”

  
“Bloody hell. Norwalk? What’s going on in Norwalk?”

  
The line goes silent for a brief moment. “Lincoln and I got a place there last month.”

  
“Uh, oookay...”

  
“I was going to tell you sooner, but things have been crazy. Like, we were doing the whole back and forth thing for so long and I just started staying with him more and more…We didn’t plan it, it just kind of happened, you know? And it’s so much cheaper than LA and way closer to work for him.”

  
Clarke clears her throat to buy her a few seconds before settling on, "Makes sense.” And It does make perfectly good sense. What doesn't is waiting until now to tell her.

  
“I just figured you’re never home anyway, and you’ve been letting me crash for like ever…” Only about three years, but yeah, she hasn't been counting.

  
“I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner, to be fair,” Clarke admits. “And Lincoln’s absolutely lovely, so. Cheers, mate.” She means it, she really does. Even if it’s slightly strange her best friend didn’t tell her a month ago.

  
“Did you just call my boyfriend lovely?”

  
“True story.”

  
“Aww, you really do love me, don’t you?”

  
“More-so Lincoln, but yeah, I suppose.” Clarke smiles at Octavia's laugh, letting the comfort of their soon-to-be silence fall between them.

  
“So listen, I still need to talk to you about something else. You remember Lincoln’s cousin, right? Lexa?”

  
Name doesn’t ring any bells. “Not particularly.”

  
“Halloween last year. Dressed like Black Widow. Great butt.”

 

Clarke does have a vague recollection of a great arse and a Black Widow costume. She digs through her memory of last Halloween and snaps her fingers as it starts coming back. There was someone. Maybe five foot. Brunette. Green eyes. Super intense. “Wait, was she the one who gave me a disquisition on GMOs?”

  
“Ding ding, that’s the one.”

  
“I remember her now," Clarke smiles. "She’s alright, I reckon. Fit as fuck, but bat-shit crazy. Why?”

  
“Well, she’s picking you up from the airport tonight.”

  
“Uh, thanks, but I'm gonna pass, love. I’ll take my chances with Uber. Bird’s a bit of a sociopath.” She’s probably being harsh, but it’s for a good cause. Lexa was her name? Yeah, she poured vodka down Clarke’s crotch for no good reason. Her fanny tingled the entire cab ride home and not in a good way.

  
“Yeah, you might want to work that out. Cause she’s staying in my old room.”

“Wait, wait, _what_? Timeout. Time the fuck out.” Surely she’s missed something between now and two seconds ago.

  
“Listen, some shit went down with Costia, and—.”

  
“No, no, no. Did I mention no? ‘Cause no. Actually add a fuck to that no.” Is this real life? 

  
“Clarke, come on,” Octavia pleads. “You’ve got one of the biggest, rent- controlled apartments on the west side and you're almost _never_ home. Lexa still needs to commute for her last semester. I just need you to do me this solid and I’ll never ask you for a favor ever again.”

  
“A solid is lending some cash, or a jumper, or making a cup of tea. That’s a solid. Not letting some nutter live in my flat.”

  
“You’re never even there, anyway. What's the big deal?”

Clarke scoffs. The fucking audacity.

"The big deal is I’m going to be home for three months, minimum, in _my_ flat. So there goes that argument.”

  
“She’s already been staying there for the last two months.”

  
_“WHAT?”_

  
Remember your words Clarke. Breathe. Relax. In and out.

“Clarke—“

  
“What is this? Is this one of those bloody American reality shows where someone comes round the corner with a camera? It better fucking be. Idiotic nonsense.” She starts looking around, but there’s just some American family looking like they’re about to go to Disney, staring at her from across the way. Maybe she should wave. It’d probably make her look less deranged.

  
“Clarke, hear me out. Lexa…she’s been through a lot.”

  
“No, you know what’s a lot? Your best friend lending out your flat while you’re in another fucking _country_ —and then expecting you to be okay with it. You couldn’t have mentioned this sooner? Like, I don’t know, two months ago?”

  
“I would’ve…I just knew you’d act like this.”

  
“Like what? Like I don’t want a crazy person living in my flat? My apologies. I’ll be more sympathetic to your future needs.”

  
Octavia sighs in frustration. “Clarke, you’re never even there. You come home like, once a year, if that. It’s temporary. Three months, max.”

  
“And just what the hell am I supposed to do until then? Not live in my house? No big.”

  
“Can you stop being dramatic for like...two seconds? Lexa is _not_ a sociopath. She just caught her girlfriend cheating on her with one of her best friends. She’s got no family, nowhere to go, and a semester of law school to finish. So maybe you could try to be like…nice?”

  
“Tragic story, terrible, really—the mate shagging her girl and all, it’s awful; but I’ve got my own shit, love. As soon as I get back I’ve got recordings and meetings. I need my space so I can work on the album. I’m sorry, really, it’s just not my problem.”

  
“Please tell me you aren’t that egocentric.”

  
“I am, terribly, so. Horrible upbringing. Can’t help it.”

  
Octavia takes a deep sigh. Clarke knows that sigh, which means she also knows what’s coming next.

  
“Look, I know Lex is kind of quiet and intense but she’s also…shy and like…really, really cool. You just need to get to know her a little bit. This whole thing with Costia has been really hard for her. Lincoln says he’s never seen her like this. She's barely getting by right now. So we just need you to help us out, please.”

  
Clarke wants to listen, she really does, but her mind just keeps going back to some stranger who has been living in her flat for the last two months and—  
“Oh my god, are there gonna be inspirational photo frames everywhere?” _Live, laugh, love._ It’s all she sees, painted to the walls, magnets on the fridge. She imagines hand towels with quotes ( _dance like no one is watching_ , to be specific) and organic cook books and weird fuzzy fabric covers on her toilet seat and old lady fruit baskets, weird doll calendars on the wall next to the stove and pink placemats on her kitchen table and hand soap that smells like rosemary—

  
_Holy fucking shit._

  
“Huh?”

  
“I can’t do this, O. I’m not…” _Good at adulting or sharing space or being empathetic to other people’s emotions._

  
The adulting thing seems like a good enough reason of itself, to be perfectly honest.

  
Clarke wants to elaborate but the loudspeaker just above her announces that certain seats on her flight are beginning to line up and board. Hers is one of them.

  
“Is that you?”

  
“Yeah.” The room suddenly seems so hazy.

  
“Listen, everything’s going to be fine. Call me when you land and we’ll talk more.”

  
“O! No, no—don’t you dare hang up. You need to get this sorted.” Panic surges and creeps up her neck. She needs to board her flight but she also needs this feeling in the pit of her stomach to go away.

  
“Everything’s set. Lexa’s going to pick you up and once you get home, you’ll realize how much you’re overreacting right now. Just be nice and everything will be fine, Clarke.”

  
“Fine? There is no fine. Actually, this is the opposite of fine.”

  
“Stop being a pain in the ass. Text me once you land.” _No no no no no._

  
“Octavia—.” How can she be so casual? Like, who does this?

  
“Get on the plane before you miss your flight.”

  
“No, we’re not done—“

  
“Love you, bye!”

  
Before she can even get in another word, the screen flashes.

  
_Call ended._

  
Fuck _._

 

* * *

 

“Honestly, I’ll be fine. I can stay at Indra’s.”

  
“I hardly think Indra’s living room floor is what you need right now.” Lincoln yanks away the t-shirt she was in the process of folding and sets it down on the bed beside her duffel bag. It’s times like these Lexa’s glad she’s never been one for material possessions. Everything she owns can be packed in twenty minutes. No weight, no ties. She can leave anytime she wants.

  
Except now.

  
Fucking University transfer policies.

It'd be stupid to just up and leave in her last semester. Especially when she's worked _so_ hard to get to this point.

  
The rational side of her knows staying at Indra’s is not ideal. She’s got five people living in a two-bedroom apartment and it’s nearly an hour and a half from campus, yet she keeps telling herself that she can make it work. She can sleep in her car on the days she works and buy a cheap gym membership for a place to shower and regroup when necessary.

  
She’s done it before; she can do it again.

  
“It’s better than nothing,” Lexa grumbles.

  
“But you have something. Octavia’s already talked to Clarke—.”

  
“Clarke’s an ass,” she pipes in.

The thing about Lexa is she doesn’t do handouts, and especially not from someone she doesn’t even know (or particularly _like_ ).

  
“You’ve met her once, Lex.”

  
Clearly he’s not familiar with the old adage _‘once is enough_.’

  
She met Clarke about two summers ago at some upscale downtown nightclub. Lincoln and Octavia had only been dating a couple of weeks and Clarke invited everyone out to celebrate some kind of...YouTube channel thing? (Maybe?) All she remembers is the British charm started off light and endearing until about halfway through the night when Clarke put her hand up her girlfriend’s ( _ex_ -girlfriend’s) skirt in a corner booth.

  
(She won’t talk about the little place in the corner of her mind that knows Costia _let_ Clarke to do it, though).

  
“Look, it’s cool. I get it. Things happen, plans change. This is her place, I’m not going to impose—”

  
“Don’t get weird, Lex.”

  
Lexa bites her lip to contain an awkward scowl before reaching for her shirt again. The faster she packs the faster she can leave and figure out where the hell she’s going to live.

“You can say what you want but you and I both know it’s gonna get weird.” Octavia knew the score. Lexa had agreed to stay there as long as she could pay her portion and Clarke wouldn’t be there.

  
“Not if you don’t make it weird.” Lincoln’s accustomed to using a calming voice tactic that usually makes people feel irrational. It’s not going to work on her.

  
“Honestly, I’d rather just make the commute. I appreciate Octavia so much, I really do. She’s been generous and supportive and amazing but this is more than I signed up for.”

  
Lincoln’s half-hearted chuckle makes her stop and look up again. “What?”

  
“Indra is so right,” he states simply.

  
She runs a hand through her hair and sighs heavily. “About?”

  
“Your pride is your worst enemy.”

  
She rolls her eyes and looks away, just waiting for another Lincoln After School Special in proverbial life lectures.

  
“You mean to tell me you’d rather sleep on a shitty carpet or in the back of your car rather than deal with your problems? Make Indra worry when you don’t come home and inconvenience her when she’s got enough going on as it is? I’ve got to say, it sounds pretty selfish, if you ask me.”

  
She swallows thick and looks away from his gaze, hating that sinking part of her stomach that thinks—no, that knows—he’s right.

  
She knows Indra worries. She’s spent more than a few years worrying about the both of them.

  
Lexa rocks on her heels passively, maybe a little impatiently as well, just wanting to get this conversation over with.

  
“You’re going through a lot right now, O and I know that, okay? But you’ve got to trust us. This—” his finger gestures around the room—“is temporary and will get better. You just need to stay positive. If living with Clarke for the next three months is the worst thing that ever happens to you, well, you’re going to be okay…”

  
She swallows another lump of pride. “Yeah…”

  
He dangles the keys to her jeep like catnip, watching her eyes follow the back and forth motion.

  
“Plane lands at nine-thirty. What's it gonna be?"

  
Lexa nods in disappointment, knowing full well she’s caved.

  
It doesn’t mean she has to like it.

* * *

 

Lexa looks different than she remembers.

It could be the flat-footed Converse skewing Clarke’s height perception, or the ripped skinny jeans revealing too much honesty within her small frame, but the Lexa she recalls was slightly more intimidating.

  
Her posture’s still eloquent—shoulders level and slightly guarded, feminine yet boyish hips, small chest; the definitive changes really lie in her facial structure—the lines of her smile less prominent, her well-defined jaw more rigid and chiseled with age, cheekbones higher than before. Eyes that were once soft are now hyper-focused, less personal, but still a brilliant shade of green.

  
Like maybe a paint mixture of dark green and aqua with soft brush strokes and—

  
“You’re late.”

  
It’s funny how two words can so quickly bring Clarke right back down to reality.

  
Lexa’s tone doesn’t say as much as her body language does, with her arms folded tightly against the front of her body as she leans against the car. If she’s aiming for impatient and broody, she’s definitely winning at life.

  
A simple ‘ _Hello, how are you_ ,’ would’ve been nice. “Yeah, well, hate to break it to ya love, but I don’t control Delta’s luggage schedule.”

  
Clarke wheels her suitcase near the boot, struggling with her carry-on bag hanging from her left shoulder and a thick laptop case sliding down her right.  
Lexa just walks past her with an irritated look on her face and yanks open the driver’s side door, hollering “Hurry up, I’ve got an early class in the morning” as she plops in the front seat.

Well, this is a great start.

  
“No, you go on, I’ve got this,” Clarke mutters sarcastically while struggling with her bags and the latch on the back of the Jeep. She doesn't know how to work these damn things.

  
Her actual luggage bag doesn’t fit in the small space she’s given, and when she tells Lexa as much, she calls out instructions to push the seats forward. Eleven minutes later Clarke’s still on the struggle bus, trying to figure out why American cars have so many levers and mechanical things, and fucking hell, she just wants to go home.

  
In the end, Clarke=1, bags=0.

  
She plays it cool when she finally plops down in the passenger seat, like her body isn’t wracked with frustration and her forehead isn’t coated in sticky sweat, but they’re moving, and moving is progress.

  
Lexa doesn’t really acknowledge her. Her eyes never leave the road. She just flicks through radio stations over and over again, and when it finally feels like she’s going to settle on something, she changes it thirty seconds later. It happens a second time. Then a third. And when it seems like the circle of insanity will never end, Clarke can actually feel her nails digging at the fabric under her legs.

  
“Oh my God, _stop_.” She doesn’t want to be that person, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  
“What?” Lexa doesn’t look over, just leaves her fingers tightly bound to the wheel.

  
“Find something and just leave it, for all that is bloody holy.”

  
“I’ll listen to what I want. My car, my radio.”

  
“Well, that’s mature.” She kind of wants to throw an  _Insert sarcasm here_ sign in her fucking face.

  
Lexa shrugs defensively. “Look, I’m not really in the mood for much, okay?”

  
“Yeah, I gathered that.”

  
Lexa doesn’t say anything more as they carry on driving, but she does settle on some soft music. The lyrics are demure and the guitar strums are heavy. It’s basically a sinkhole for depression but Clarke did ask for something.

  
“Do you know this band?” Lexa tries at small talk. Maybe she’s picking up on Clarke’s body language, maybe not. She goes with it anyway.

  
“Nope.”

  
“They’re pretty Indie. Right after Costia, I heard them in a coffee shop one day and…”

  
She doesn’t need Lexa to finish the sentence to know where it’s heading. The way she tenses her shoulders before swallowing says it all.

  
“It’s nice,” Clarke chimes.

 

"Yeah," Lexa says. Her jaw couldn't be any more rigid. 

 

But _God_ does she have a great face.

 

After another beat, “Maybe I’ll try to cover it," Clarke offers.

  
Lexa’s gaze falls to her inquisitively and Clarke adds with a smile, “Playing music is kinda my thing.”

  
“Oh, right.”

 

And she doesn't say anything more.

 

* * *

  
Her flat has always been modest. She doesn’t keep a lot of furniture, and she’s never been one for material possessions, so the thought of someone bringing unnecessary… _stuff_ into her home drives her insane. She likes space, room for her ideas to flourish into art. Maybe tomorrow she wants to randomly turn her living room into a painting studio or push couches together and build sheet forts to hide under with her guitar for a week. Fuck knows, she just wants to make sure the option’s still there.

  
So Clarke thanks the bloody stars that it hasn’t changed.

  
Not really, anyway.

  
There are no pink placemats or weird china doll cabinets. There are no _live, laugh, love_ photo frames (although Clarke can’t help but think Lexa might actually _benefit_ from some uplifting, inspirational type shit). In fact, the only signs of Lexa’s actually living in her apartment is a bottle of natural hemp shampoo in the shower.

  
The second thing she notices? The place is spotless. Like, there are exactly zero dust specks on any surface.

  
It’s virtually lifeless.

  
Well, she takes that back. There’s a fruit basket on the kitchen counter filled with bananas, apples, and oranges, but it’s not a horribly decorated basket of the old lady variety.

  
Curiously, Clarke begins to explore.

  
She doesn’t peg Lexa for the Ramen type and she’s pleased to find out she isn’t wrong. Behind cupboard doors are neatly lined rows of canned fruits and vegetables, all slid to one side (Clarke’s assuming the empty side is meant for her), an unopened container of vanilla protein powder, pre-portioned trail mix packets, and one small box of Raisin Bran.

  
It’s when she opens the refrigerator that she begins to legitimize the possibility of Lexa actually being a sociopath.

  
On the top shelf is a row of clear, capped bottles with perfectly placed labels on the outside. Clarke picks up the first bottle labeled _vanilla-blueberry almond_ , _Monday_ and examines the ingredients as they slosh around the bottom. Taped to the side is a small, measured packet of powder, neatly folded up not to spill. _Tuesday_ is the same but labeled _apple-mango_.

  
Even the all upper-case handwriting on the labels is bold and concise.

  
On the bottom shelf there are another five Ziploc containers, level, portioned, again labeled, again all well prepared in some creepy, strategic fashion.

  
She almost wants to take pictures as future evidence for when they find her body.

  
“I’ll make less at a time if it’s taking up too much space.”

  
It’s not a voice she was expecting to hear and Clarke jumps about two feet in surprise, her forehead taking a blow against a corner shelf while _Tuesday’s_ cup lands sharply on her big toe.  
Her choice of spewed profanities and Lexa’s indifferent expression don’t help the cause, and even though Clarke can honestly say she’s never had her ass kicked by a fridge before, at least she has a better method for self-defense in the future.

  
She rubs circles into her forehead trying to dull the ache, letting her eyes refocus. Her gaze slowly moves back to Lexa who looks terribly unimpressed as she picks up her smoothie concoction.

  
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  
Clarke looks at the hand reaching out to help her up, pretending not to notice the really tight, small boy shorts Lexa’s changed into. It is getting late, so, pajamas make sense.

Pajamas. That's all they are.

Bedtime clothes.

  
It takes her a moment to realize she's moving. The pull that brings Clarke back to her feet is strong, and on the way up she glimpses. Her eyes focus on skin and muscle. A clavicle maybe. And something about Lexa’s forearms that just look really, really lovely in that white tank top.

Pajamas. _Focus_.

  
“Look, the food is really not a bother,” Clarke admits while averting her eyes. She hardly ever uses the fridge anyway, unless it’s to store day old takeout or stockpile beer. “I’ve just never seen someone so…organized.”

  
“My weekdays are pretty hectic, so it’s a must.”

  
Clarke nods (because nodding means listening, not wondering if Under Armour will be making a regular appearance in the pajama repertoire). “Right. Busy. Law school. Got it.”

  
“Nutrition is important to me and this is the only way I make sure it stays a priority.”

  
There’s got to be a matching sports bra that exists somewhere, Clarke’s sure of it. 

  
“Makes sense.” It also makes sense that Lexa’s been doing some top notch fucking work on an elliptical somewhere. Bloody hell.

  
Silence expands between them as Lexa eyes her momentarily. It's only for a second before shyly looking away. It basically leaves Clarke shuffling nervously on the ball of her heels with wandering eyes and a vivid imagination.

  
_Well, this isn’t awkward._

  
“Do you need the loo? Otherwise I’m gonna go shower." It comes out more abruptly then Clarke means it to, and suddenly the weight of the day is catching up to her. She’s exhausted, mostly from the time change, but also from life. Sexual frustration. Traveling. The feeling of stale airplane on skin is never a good thing.

  
Lexa shakes her head and Clarke can’t help but notice how tense her shoulders are again, or how her eyes seem to be rarely making contact with hers.

 

"Well, goodnight then," she offers before walking away.

  
And as she grabs a towel from the hall closet, she thinks maybe dirty thoughts are louder than they seem.


End file.
